


The Reflection

by NervousAsexual



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Episode: s01e15 Balance of Terror, Questioning Authority, References to Depression, Romulans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:27:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28016208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NervousAsexual/pseuds/NervousAsexual
Summary: A reflection, the crew said. Another Tellus, following along on the other side of the bent light, tracing every move they made.Maybe so.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 9
Collections: Star Trek Holidays 2020





	The Reflection

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pauraque](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pauraque/gifts).



A reflection, the crew say. Another Tellus, following along on the other side of the bent light, tracing every move they made.

Maybe so.

The commander does not treat it as such. In his years of experience one thing above all had kept him alive: the commander always expected the worst. Even if the ship was as they said, a reflection, it cannot be so in the commander's mind. No matter the reality he will treat the reflection as a threat.

When the human ship's phasers have torn apart the Bird-of-Prey, when the debris is raining down around them, when the centurion takes his last breath, the commander does not say that he warned them. As the ship falls to pieces he sits at the centurion's bedside, the cool limp hand still tucked carefully into his, he listens to the growing panic that spreads through the vessel and thinks only what a waste of a good soldier this is. What a waste of a life.

For the glory of the praetor, the crew said, says, will continue to say. Do the words mean anything to them? What is glory to any of them? They are young--they are so very young--and glory to them is an just invisible currency they can covet. He has seen glory, has held it for himself and his House and has earned it for others, and he knows that glory is like water. It will slip through your fingers and your thirst will be all the greater for having held it.

He presses the centurion's hand one last time and steps back from the body.

"I'm sorry, old friend," he says, an apology for everything and for nothing. He does not watch as the crew carries the body to the escape chute. This feels like a betrayal, even though he knows the centurion would understand his tactics, would in fact want this. Even as the commander's disillusionment has grown the centurion has stood by his side, wanting nothing more than to help his old friend keep hold of his Romulan values.

He and the human commander circle each other like set'leth fighting over scraps. Does he feel how pointless this battle is? He is clever, that much is clear, but so was the centurion. Cleverness in itself will not cause a man to question the authority he has followed his entire life.

He would like to meet this captain. They would have much to talk about. He would say, "I have spent decades watching the universe growing grey and dull and thinking the turning was all inevitable, and suddenly you have brought back all the color." The colors of grief and fear, anger and rage, interest, exhilaration, he's felt them all today, and he is grateful. It won't replace what he's lost, but at least he can mourn what he has.

Decius is restless. The rest of the crew is quiet, at least, during the hours they lay hidden from the human starship, but Decius more than any of the others wants his glory. "If we attacked first," he says, seeming to ignore the fact that the human ship has kept carefully out of range. "If we drew them into the neutral zone. If we have them fooled..."

But they do not have them fooled. Though twenty cycles have come and gone with no sign of the ship he knows it is out there.

"How?" Decius asks.

He feels the ship out there. He feels the cagey human captain out there, waiting for him to make the first move. How long it has been since he has felt anything at all.

All he says to Decius is, "We will wait."

And so they wait. They wait yet more cycles. The crew grows more restless. The commander feels some degree of sympathy; how proud they had been when they boarded this ship, the pride of the praetor's fleet, for such a glorious mission. They came to spit in the face of the Federation, not to play at some waiting game. This is not the war they were promised.

They are fools, but it is hardly their fault. From birth a Romulan is trained to crave the glory of battle. The commander was much like them at one time, but the years have worn away the facade and the commander has seen so many soldiers, some of whom he loved even more greatly than he loved the centurion, die. And for what? A few parsecs here and there along the border of the neutral zone? What a waste.

"A signal," Decius says.

What a waste.

"We have him," the commander tells him.

They gather their reserves for one last shot and the commander feels it in his chest--this is a shot they can hardly afford to take, let alone miss. In terms of fuel and in terms of lives the cost is too great. It hardly matters. He has always been paying, and he will be paying until he meets his own expiration.

One of us will not make it home, he wants to tell the human commander. Are you prepared for that reality? Does the Federation even allow you to consider it? Or are you more like me than not--devoted in actions but not in thought?

The human commander sends his answer in the form of a volley of phasers. He is thrown back from the console in a tangle of other bodies, flung into debris and smoke and sparks. One of his compatriots strikes the floor at an excruciating angle. The commander crawls to him and feels for his heartbeat just below the soldier's helmet.

The soldier is Decius. There is no heartbeat.

With all of the strength he has acquired over his lifetime he forces himself to his feet, sharp pains in his sides indicating broken ribs and a faint haze over his eyesight implying a concussion, and he makes his way step by step to the console. He looks around. He is the only one left standing. He is the only one who can sustain the praetor's honor.

To Erebus with the praetor's honor, he thinks, but his hands still aim the ship's plasma fire at the Federation ship. He orders a fire. He orders a fire. He orders a fire. None of the weapons are responding. Very well. He begins to call up the program to self-destruct the ship. The Federation will not have the praetor's secrets. Not under his watch.

As he is working, a ship-to-ship communication comes through. He ignores it.

It is from the human commander. He ignores it.

The communication does not leave. The final shot does not come.

So be it.

He wipes the blood from his mouth and puts the communications onscreen. He can hear the hum of a foreign ship and the clanging of alarms that are not Romulan. He summons up his strength again and turns to the screen.

Across the border the bridge of the Federation ship is dark but a single shaft of light flickers. The commander thinks wryly that at least they have done some damage to the enemy. He watches the soft light and traces it with his eyes down to what he can only assume is the command station.

A human man looks back at him. He looks young, almost a child, but human lives are so short the commander can't be sure. The human doesn't gloat or posture or intimidate. He only looks back with wide gentle eyes.

"Captain," the man says. His voice is soft but commanding, and in his voice the commander can hear how he runs his ship, down to the minutest interaction with the lowest recruit. He is calm and passionate and kind. He is what the commander would like to be if he were human. "Standing by to beam your survivors aboard our ship. Prepare to abandon your vessel."

For a moment he does not understand. Would it not be simpler to destroy the praetor's ship now and eliminate all threats? Perhaps the translator has been damaged. Perhaps he did not mean to say 'survivors' but instead 'prisoners.' But he looks into the human man's eyes and recognizes himself there. The man has no love for war. He is asking for surrender.

An overwhelming sadness floods his body and he finds himself shaking his head. "No," he tells the human. "No. It is not our way." Were he human and not Romulan he suspects he would feel tears. "I regret that we meet in this way. You and I are of a kind."

The human commander inclines his head very slightly, or perhaps the viewscreen is giving out.

"In a different reality," the commander says, to the human, to himself, "I could have called you friend."

The human's eyes have not left his face. "What purpose will it serve to die?"

It is such a simple question. What purpose? What does purpose matter to the Romulan star empire? "We are creatures of duty, captain. I have lived my life by it. Just one more duty to perform." He can barely stand now, clinging to fallen supports to keep himself upright. The human starts to speak then falls silent. There is respect in the man's gaze. Although he does not understand the Romulan way he understands that it is the Romulan way. And yet there are unsaid words as well in his gaze. He looks at the commander and his eyes say, what a waste of a good soldier. What a waste of a life.

He can no longer stand that gaze. He turns away, and his hands find the console. What a waste, he thinks, and he initiates the self-destruct sequence.

_There is a pull inside him, his body dissolves, and he can no longer feel the burn of steam and fire. He falls, expecting to strike the floor and feel nothing more, but instead he feels arms around him. He hears voices but they do not speak Romulan. He doesn't understand. He has no talent for languages, but he thinks he recognizes it nonetheless. It's Federation Standard._

_To Erebus with the praetor's honor._

_He smiles to himself, and then he feels nothing.  
_


End file.
